Courting Fire
by 221b Baker Street
Summary: One possible scenario of a rather important time in the life of young Patrick Jane. A one-off.


_**Courting Fire**_

He watched her as she worked under the huge spinning wheel that was her Metal for the week. She could work them all, probably could have since she was four. It was like an extension of her arms, the dials, levers and switches that ran the machines. But she took their tickets too, and she smiled at them and chatted while the Wheel spun around and around above her head, and they waited in line for their turn. She didn't care about the Metal, she didn't care about the profits, she cared about the people. It was unusual in this company, remarkable actually, and he was crazy over her because of it. He always had been.

It was twilight, the best time to come to a county fair. The sky was dark, the lights were bright, and the smells of kettle corn and cotton candy filled the air, rising and falling on the Missouri breeze. There was also the smell of smoke, of oil and of elephants, a strange blend to be sure, but it was the smell of his life. That and the little trailer that he called home. That home often smelled like cigarettes, booze and cheap women, and on those nights, he stayed outside.

Like tonight. He had skipped out on his gig in the striped blue and purple tent. There was something in the air tonight, a dense wind that had him feeling tight and wired. Besides, he had already put in a full day. He had made his money, earned his keep, kept his dad in poker money. He needed to see her, to touch her hair, her skin, her hand. She was the only reason he was still here. She was so very young.

The Wheel went round and round above her head. And so as he watched her, her narrowed his eyes and willed her to look at him. She would, he knew. It was almost as if she sensed him from miles away. He watched her smiling, laughing, chatting with the marks who paid big bucks to be entertained. He willed her to feel him, to throw a glance his way, to lower her eyes and blush. That was the best of all, when he made her blush. He knew he could get to her everytime.

Waiting, watching, willing, and _there!_ She glanced over her shoulder, saw him strung out like a set of Christmas lights under the tracks of the 'coaster. Quickly, she looked away, as if the very looking could unleash a monster, set in motion forces that could not be stopped. Which of course, it could.

For he sprang from the tracks and bounded through the crowds to the gate that encircled the Wheel. One hand on the rail, he hopped it with little effort. He was a cat. Jane the cat. And she was his mouse.

He climbed onto the control panel, dropped his backside onto the On/Off switch.

"Hi," he said, grinning like a schoolboy. Which of course, he never had been.

"Get off, ape," she grinned, tried to push him off, but he was well and truly set. "I have to work."

"Kiss me."

"Get off!"

The Wheel went round and round above their heads. The lights danced in her eyes, reflected off her long, dark hair. It was pulled off in a ponytail, and it bounced whenever she moved her head.

"Kiss me and maybe I will."

"I can't kiss you, Paddy. Not here. Someone might see."

He leaned back, spread wide his arms. _"Everyone_ will see!"

The waiting crowd cheered, entranced. He bowed to them like a performer. Which of course, he was. He worked them like a pro.

She pushed at him again. "My dad will kill you."

The Wheel went round and round above their heads. He dropped his chin in his hand, glanced up, pouted. "They're getting a long ride tonight, yeh?"

She leaned into him. "You are _sitting_… on the _switch."_ Her eyes flashed at him, set his pulse racing.

He leaned into her, grinning all the more. "Then kiss me and I'll move."

"Kiss him!" someone yelled from the crowd.

"Yeah, kiss him or we'll never get our turn!"

"Your customers are getting restless, Angela."

He never called her Angela. Only when he wanted to push her buttons. Which was often. She sighed and pecked him on the cheek.

"There. Happy?"

"Meh. Your aunt Tessie kisses better than that."

He bent toward the crowd, his backside still firmly planted on the panel. "Sorry!" he called to them. "No ride tonight. You'd best all go home! Her dad will give you a full refund. Carl Ruskin. Just ask for Carl. Lovely man. Don't mind the tattoos. He's a pussycat."

"Kiss him," they cried, as if they were at a baseball game and cursing the Ump.

"What?" He cupped a hand behind his ear. "I can't hear you!"

"Kiss him! Kiss him! Kiss him!"

He swung his arms with the beat, as if he were conducting an orchestra, but in fact, he only had eyes for her.

"Kiss him! Kiss him! Kiss him!"

She growled, grabbed him by the ears and kissed him.

The waiting crowd went wild and the Wheel went around and around above their heads.

Her hands slid into his golden hair and she kissed him.

The Wheel went around and around above their heads.

Ran across the breadth of his shoulders, down his back, to his narrow waist, pulled him so very close and she kissed him.

The Wheel went around and around above their heads.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, she let him go

He swayed a moment as if dizzy, but he landed on his feet. He always did. Like a cat. Jane the cat. And he left the control panel and the dock of the Wheel, sprang over the gate and sprinted off into the crowd, pausing only once to turn back.

"Tonight?"

"When my shift is over!" she called back, laughing, the wind blowing her long dark hair. "I have to put away the elephant!"

He leapt into the air like a young lamb and disappeared into the lights and sounds and smells of the Show.

...

They usually met at 1:00am , after the Metal had been shut down and the elephant locked away. Tonight, it was under the crane which traveled with the company, moving things far too heavy even for strong men, bearded ladies and freaks. Until they packed up again, it was usually deserted. The perfect place for a late night rendezvous.

He stroked her hair, breathed deep the scent of her. Shampoo and wet grass filled his world right now, shampoo, wet grass and her fingers running circles across his chest. He was on his back, sleepily counting stars, thinking he'd never been happier in all his life. No sex, not yet. She was only seventeen and a good girl. He was almost nineteen, so very much older, far more worldly, yet she still made him feel like a little boy. He had lost his heart the moment he had seen her, back when he was twelve, but had never told a soul. She was meant for better things than him.

He sighed. It had been a strange day, tense and heavy. He could sense these things. They weighed on him like a blanket.

"So." She nudged him. "Keep going."

"Right. So then, there was this lady. I think she must have been eighty. She had a whisky flask, very old, wanted me to use it talk to her husband."

"Through a whisky flask?"

"He was dead. Maybe five, six years dead."

"You can't do stuff like that, Paddy. It's not right."

"I know. But still, she said she'd pay me whatever I wanted. My dad was so pissed off that I wouldn't do it. I might have, but honestly, I didn't even know where to start. How do you pretend to channel dead spirits? Hmm, I should look that up…"

She pushed up, leaned her chin on his chest, ran her fingers under the buttons of his shirt. "You're too smart for that stuff, Paddy. You could go to college, you know."

"Without High School? Are you kidding? No college would take me."

"Any college would take you, Paddy."

"Yeah. I'll wash the professors' elephants, read their palms, research my thesis on Heterotic String Theory in Latin. You know, typical college stuff."

She sighed and her eyes drifted upward, and he suddenly felt very bad. He reached up to stroke her cheek. His fingers were dirty. Not good for a palm reader and sleight of hand artist. His dad would kill him if he saw.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"I just don't like it when you're cynical like that," she started. "It reminds me of my father. It's soul destroying."

"I know. I don't want to be here any more than you do."

"Then let's leave."

His heart skipped. He wasn't sure he'd heard.

"What?"

She looked down at him now. Her face was his whole world. Her face, and the stars. "I'm eighteen in four months. We can leave then. Make our own way. You could get a real job somewhere. I could find something. We could have our own place…"

"Together?" It came out like a squeak._ Was she suggesting what he thought she was suggesting?_ "You mean, like, 'move-in-together-own-place' kind of place?"

A hint of a smile tugged into one cheek. "Well, we'd have to get married first."

_Married._ He thought his heart would burst out of his chest. She wanted to marry him.

He rolled out from under her and onto his knees, fished in his pockets for something, pulled it out and held it up for her to see. It glinted in the moonlight.

Her eyes narrowed as she studied it, then suddenly her face split with a wide smile.

"That's the cheesiest ring I've ever seen…"

He smiled back, sun, moon and stars all rolled into one, just for her. "I know, I won it at the bottle toss. Pegged it in one, blindfolded." With the greatest care, he slid it over her finger. She admired it in the moonlight.

"One day, I'll get you a real one. A diamond so big you won't be able to lift your hand."

She laughed.

"I _will _get a job. We can go to Reno. It's smaller than Vegas, so it's a good place to start. I can work the tables—"

"No, Paddy. No gambling."

"No, no. For the house. I could be a dealer somewhere. I think you can do that at nineteen. No one has hands like me."

She smiled again and it took his breath away. He gathered her hands up in his. The plastic gem pressed into his palm.

"We're going to have so much money, Ange. We'll move to California, buy a house, a _rea_l house. No more trailers. We'll get a house in, in…" His eyes danced as he thought. "Malibu."

"Malibu?"

"Yep, a house in Malibu. Right on the beach. You'll see, Ange. I'm gonna do it. Your dad, my dad, we'll show them all what I can really do."

She shook her head. "Patrick Jane, you're gonna be the death of me."

He leaned forward and kissed her. "Yes I will."

There was a rustle of fabric by the crane as a shape moved out of the shadows.

"Psst, Boy Wonder. You're dad's looking for you."

"Danny…" Angela hissed.

Danny Ruskin stepped into view. He was a young kid, skinny, not quite fifteen. "You two better amscray. The Dads are on the warpath, and let me tell you, it ain't pretty."

"Oh no," she moaned.

Patrick squeezed her hand as he rose to his feet, pulling her up with him. "It's okay. Four more months, remember."

Young Ruskin frowned. "Four months to what?"

Jane stepped over to where Angela's brother was lurking. "I can't tell you, Daniel. Trade secret. Someone would have to kill me if I told."

"Who? Who would have to kill you?"

"I can't tell you that either. Then they'd have to kill you."

And he slipped away into the night, like a cat. Jane the cat.

...

He waited for a moment by the door of the trailer, listening quietly for sounds of sex. He didn't care what his dad did, he just didn't like the way the women looked at him when they were done. Without exception, they put the moves on him, even in the presence of his father. To make it worse, he could see his father trying to figure an angle, a new way to make money off his almost-adult son. He hated how it made him feel.

The trailer was silent and dark, save for the radio light over the little sink. He let himself in, trying not to breathe the stale smell of cigarettes, but the whisky smelled good. He looked around in the dark for the bottle when he saw his father sitting in a chair, waiting.

"Dad."

"You didn't do your show tonight, son."

He shrugged, tried to rally. "Nah. Took the night off."

"Going into business for yourself, are you?"

"You're drunk." He set his jaw. "I'm going to bed."

"I'm not finished with you yet." And his father rose to his feet. He was a tall man, squared shouldered and hard, with dark hair and quick blue eyes. The eyes were the only thing that linked father to son. In all other respects, Patrick looked like his mother. "You don't do anything lest I say so. And you certainly don't take a night off whenever you feel like it. Do you understand?"

The heat was rising in him, but he didn't move. He never could. It was the only way to stay in one piece. Shut down and shut up. The only way.

"That woman was willing to pay one thousand dollars. One thousand dollars!" He rapped his son on the side of the head. "Does that even register in that scattered brain of yours? Maybe I should make you pay the rent on this dump of a trailer. Maybe I should make you pay for your own clothes, your own food, all this fine whisky. Maybe that might make you grow up some. Might make you think twice before you up and decide to take the night off…"

He moved to push past his son, but grabbed his arm and yanked him close. "And stay away from that Ruskin girl. We don't need any trouble from Carl. He'll kill you, he will." He smiled, patted him on the cheek. "And then how will we pay for the whisky?"

He released his son and pushed past him toward the bedroom.

"We're getting married."

_Damn!_ He hadn't meant for it to come out. His mouth always got him into trouble. He had meant to shut up, keep quiet, lay low. Only four more months, after all, but he couldn't keep his damned mouth shut for more than four minutes.

His father turned around slowly.

"You're what?"

A strange calm came over him. He didn't care. He was leaving in four months. He just didn't care anymore.

It was strangely liberating.

"I said, we're getting married. She'll be eighteen, I'm almost nineteen. We're going to leave this place and never come back." His body was frozen but his tongue was free. It would be the death of him someday.

His father was in his face now. It was almost funny. "You think you're going to marry Carl Ruskin's daughter?"

"Yes."

"And how are you going to live without the show?"

"We'll figure it out. We'll make our own show."

"Oh, you will, will you?"

He hadn't hit him yet. Maybe he couldn't. Maybe the smackdowns when he was a kid had done the job, training him to stop before he crossed the line. But he was older now, stronger, and maybe all that was left was threats and intimidation, and therefore, impotence. Suddenly, his entire world shifted, something inside him clicked, and that line became a red flag. He knew it was meant for crossing.

He slipped his hands into his pockets.

"I guess you'll just have to buy your own whisky."

The blow nearly flung him off his feet, a savage backhander that sent him reeling into the metal fold-up dining table. It took a moment for him to register what had happened, but by then, his father's hand had fallen across the back of his neck, staying just long enough and squeezing just hard enough to threaten, keeping him bent over and down for several minutes before relaxing, and running up to ruffle his hair.

"You shouldn't make me do things like that, son. We're a team, and teams don't hurt each other. If you get Carl Ruskin mad at you, well, that spoils the team. It's selfish, son. I don't want you to be selfish. It's a very ugly trait. I'm just looking out for you, is all. Helping you grow into a man worthy of respect. Can you understand that, son? Can you?"

_The only way._

He nodded, and his father patted his back.

_The line was a red flag._

"Go get some sleep, son. We have a busy day tomorrow."

And he was gone, just like that, flicking off the little radio light over the sink as he went.

Leaving his son Patrick shaking by the door.

...

He used a stick to tap on her window. She shared a tiny room with Danny, which was good because Danny'd never tell. He waited the customary minute as she'd slip out, ever so quietly. Her dad was a tyrant, her grandparents having built this company from a single carousel and a rusted roller coaster in Oklahoma. But it was very late. He hoped she'd come.

She did.

"It's too late," she whispered, tugging a blanket around her shoulders. "If dad finds out..."

"We need to go now."

"What? Patrick?"

"Now. Come one." He grabbed her hand. "I nicked my dad's keys. It's only thirty miles to Fulton. We can take the I-70 West, then north once we get to Utah. I looked a map. I got it all memorized."

"Paddy, what happened? Did your dad…?" Her voice trailed off and her hand reached to touch his cheek. His lip was split, his jaw swollen.

"Nah," he lied. "Tripped on the way back in the dark. You know me, Jane the cat."

"Jane the cat." She smiled and he felt like crying. "I need to wait, Paddy. I can't do this, just run away like that. Four months. Can you give me four months? Then we'll go."

"Four months…" All the air was leaving his body.

She stretched up on tiptoes to kiss him. "Besides, we have a lot of planning to do. Four months will come quick."

He tried to smile, just for her. "Okay. Sorry for waking you."

"Are you outside tonight?"

"Yeah. Under the crane."

She peeled the blanket from her shoulders, wrapped him up in it. He breathed in deep, the smells of her, the soft scratchiness of the wool. It was still warm.

"Good night, Paddy."

"Night, Ange."

He didn't want to let go of her hand. But he did.

And then she was gone, slipping into the trailer like a shadow.

He turned back to the darkness, that second heavy blanket falling over him once again. He pushed it down, deep down inside, pulled other resources from within. Felt his heart grow hard, like a diamond. He would make it in Reno, he would marry this woman, buy a house in Malibu. He would show them all what he could do.

He would show them all, even if it was the death of him.

The line had become a red flag.

He took a deep breath and smiled, heading back to where he would sleep tonight, under the crane. And the lights of the Wheel over his head were silent.

_The end_


End file.
